


Every Subject's Soul

by WolfieOnAO3



Series: Before The Ides Of March [2]
Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Pre-Canon, School, mild era appropriate homophobia, school days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29121876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfieOnAO3/pseuds/WolfieOnAO3
Summary: Raffles closed his eyes and swallowed, taking a breath, grimacing. A conflict of emotion battled over his face, and when he opened his eyes they carried a resolute dullness which hurt me more than if he had simply struck me.‘Bunny,’ he said in a controlled, measured voice, ‘it wasn’t your fault that you heard the conversation you heard, and I’m not cross with you for it, but you really oughtn’t to have heard any of it. And you have no right to ask me any questions about it, do you understand me?’Young Bunny overhears a conversation never meant for his rabbit ears.Part 2 ofBefore The Ides of March
Relationships: Bunny Manders & A. J. Raffles
Series: Before The Ides Of March [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136807
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Every Subject's Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 2 of my _Before The Ides Of March_ series -- best read in order!
> 
> Originally posted as "Throw" in _Crime, Cricket, and Inktober_

I have written before, in these unpublishable volumes, of another of mine and Raffles’ adventures at our old school; the story of how I once was able to do him one good turn on a night where events took a turn toward the unexpected. That story was in many ways much more mine to tell than the one I am about to commit to paper. This story, though I ended up an unwitting character in its unfolding, is not mine; it’s A.J.’s — and it is one I am sure he would rather remain untold. I am going to tell it, nevertheless, for through means beyond my control this story became mine, and I, in my childish stumbling, became part of it. There is far more to it than I am to write, and more, I am sure, than I know about. But still, this little bit of it is mine, and it remains mine alone to tell.

It was a bright and brisk early May. Summer was standing in wait to receive her blossomed mantel from a Spring proving to be as spirited as she was sweet, and the days as they lengthened were filled with crisp sunshine, cool rains, and the enthusiastic cries of the cricket field. School had just again reconvened following the Easter holidays, and it was with a bittersweet sting that my fourteen year old self entered into that Trinity term. This third and final term of the school year would for the nearly-eighteen year old Arthur J. Raffles, for whom I served as willing and loyal fag, be the last. Raffles was set to go up to Oxford that October — he had received his firm acceptance over the Easter break — where he would study fine art at the Ruskin school, play cricket for the Oxford Eleven, and fall forevermore outside of my ken.

Whilst I was overjoyed for Raffles himself — for alongside cricket, art was his lasting passion and one at which he showed no small measure of talent — for myself I was feeling singularly dejected. I couldn’t imagine school without the dashing Captain of the Eleven. I didn’t want to imagine it. Raffles’ kindness to me that year had turned what had promised to be a Hell into, if not a Heaven, at least some kind of bearable Purgatory out of which I might hope to one day escape relatively unscathed. Raffles’ guardianship had kept the more vile and violent bullies at bay; his guidance had helped me to navigate the unwritten rules of schoolboy and schoolmaster alike (and how to best break them); and his good-nature, great heart, and generous spirit had ensured that carrying out my duties as his fag were often the highlight of my day, rather than the bane of them. The thought of Raffles leaving was too much for my young heart to stand.

But still, we did have one term left together, and when you are fourteen years old, three months can seem as long as three years do to adults. Before we had parted for the Easter break, Raffles had promised me that come our return to school, he would make time from his hectic schedule to give me and my best friend, Dodo Rosering, a few one-to-two cricket coaching sessions. Though Raffles had made this promise in part as reward for my saving his skin during one midnight misadventure last term, I had not expected him to follow through on it. Not because I doubted his word, but simply because I was used to people making offhand promises to me which they never upheld, and because he was Arthur Raffles, Captain of the Eleven, in the first set of the sixth years, about to disembark to Oxford, popular, adventurous, intelligent, sought after… He had much more important things to be carrying on with than teaching two Middle Fourths with more enthusiasm than talent how to better play cricket.

As you might suspect, Raffles was however every bit as good as his word, and before even the first week of Trinity was out, I found myself out on the old pitch behind the lower schoolhouse with Raffles’ critical blue eye upon my bowling arm. And, as it transpired, my bowling feet, too.

‘Bunny, you are still hopping when you let go of the ball.’

I jogged back up to the crease, retrieved cricket ball in hand, blank expression upon my face. ‘What?’

‘You are still hopping. When you let go of the ball at one o’clock — which is a mite too late, by the way; you want to be aiming for an eleven o’clock position — you give a little skip. You need to keep your feet steady; step through the throw, maintain your momentum.’

I felt the colour flush my cheeks. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ Raffles laughed. ‘Just pay attention to it. Even the best bowlers bowl a bad ball sometimes; they get to be the best by recognising precisely where their mistakes lie and learning from them, not in never making any.’

‘Even you?’

‘I make more mistakes than you’ve had cold suppers, you hopping little rabbit,’ he answered me with a smile, the underlying sadness of which I didn’t catch at the time, but which stood out so glaringly when I later looked back with the clearer eye of hindsight. ‘Come on. Try again. And after each bowl I want you to tell me one thing you did wrong, and one thing you did right. Okay?’

For the first half hour of my private training session, I had been enjoying Raffles’ exclusive attention, as my friend Dodo had failed to show up as arranged. This would have worried me had I not been so preoccupied by the company of the older boy with whom I’d become quite childishly infatuated. But, as it was, I didn’t even notice my friend’s lateness; if I had, I would only have been selfishly glad of his absence, as uncharacteristic as it would have been. Dodo was a true cricket fanatic, and he had been over the moon when Raffles had made his generous offer. But, for all his effort, Dodo was nearly as bad a cricketer as me. A cruel trick of nature had given him a body wracked with asthma and as clumsy as a newborn horse, preventing him from ever becoming the first-class cricketer he should by all rights have been, had enthusiasm translated to talent. I had been looking forward with just as much excitement to Raffles’ coaching as Dodo, but for my part it was for love of the teacher rather than love of the game. Not that I didn’t care for cricket, for I most certainly did, but I lacked that all-consuming fervour, that fire behind the eyes and burning in the heart which all true adherents of the sport seem to possess. I enjoyed watching it — more so when Raffles was playing— and I hoped to be good enough a player that I would no longer be singled out by bullies for being so markedly awful at it, but my personal ambitions leaned more towards editing the mag’ than making the First Eleven.

I was just about to switch to batting practice — and looking forward to Raffles bowling for me — when Dodo finally showed up, looking more than a little irritated, and panting from rushing. And he was not alone; the Upper Sixth boy he fagged for, Christopher “Kitty” Hopkins, was following in the younger boy’s wake, his golden hair glittering beneath the Spring sunshine, his usually bright face looking somewhat paler than usual.

‘Hallo, Harry! I’m here! Hallo, Raffles; sorry I’m late,’ Dodo called out as he jogged, red-faced, up to the crease. ‘It was Kitty’s fault, not mine, so be cross with him, if you are cross at anyone.’

‘Hello, Dodo,’ I said, trying not to sound sullen at the arrival of my closest friend. I loved Dodo as much as any boy ever loved his best pal, but I couldn’t help but resent that Raffles had extended his invitation to Dodo and not left it exclusively to me. I was the one who had gotten him out of that scrape, after all. It seemed unfair that I had to share my reward.

‘Good afternoon, Dodo. Did you have a good Easter holiday?’ Raffles greeted the boy kindly; yet something in his voice caught my attention. When I glanced up at him, I caught a glimmer of ice in Raffles’ bright blue eyes as they darted across to Hopkins, and I thought I saw a flickering muscle twitch in his cheek as he clenched his jaw for just a moment. And then the smile was back on his face, as cheerful as ever.

‘Oh, yes, tops, thanks! Glad to be back at school though; no one to play cricket with at home, and the local team is bally awful. Thank you again awf’lly, Raffles,’ Dodo added with a beaming grin of his own. ‘It really is awf’lly good of you to coach us. You’re the best man on the team; you'll be the best man in the school’s records if you keep up this year like you did last! Do you know you are only a century off of topping G. K. Cecil? And he went on to play for the MCC after leaving the school! I’m sure you’ll top him by a mile this season, and—’

‘I’m batting now, Dodo,’ I interrupted him, knowing that if left unchecked the rest of our all-too-short session with Raffles would be entirely taken up by recitations of cricketing statistics.

‘Oh, all right!’ my friend said happily, snatching up the ball and giving it a few practicing tosses between his hands.

‘Are you going to be throwing, then, Dodo?’

This interjection came courtesy of Kitty Hopkins who had up until that point remained uncharacteristically quiet, standing off to one side, wringing his dainty hands and chewing on his rose-pink lips.

‘Bowling, Kitty,’ Dodo said, rolling his eyes. Dodo took a lot of liberties as fag for the soft-hearted Hopkins, who would no sooner speak a harsh word to anyone than he would murder them. Still, I knew that Dodo’s loyalty to the boy ran as deeply as my own did to Raffles; even if it hadn’t taken on quite the same colour as my own loyalty had. ‘Not throwing. Gosh, you’d think you’d have at least learned that by now!’

‘Oh, yes, bowling, sorry,’ Hopkins replied with a light laugh. ‘I never remember that. Arthur gave up correcting me years ago; I’m a lost cause, I’m afraid, Dodo.’ The young man gave another nervous laugh before glancing finally over at Raffles. ‘Hello, Arthur. You’re looking well.’

To my deepest surprise and discomfiture, instead of the affectionate greeting I had been reluctantly anticipating ever since I had seen Hopkins following Dodo up the field, Raffles instead merely nodded curtly in the boy’s direction, and offered him little more than a perfectly civil how-do-you-do. Civility from the usually charming Raffles was more pointed and cutting than blatant incivility would be from most, and even though it was not directed at me, his attitude unsettled me.

Raffles and Kitty Hopkins had been best friends for nearly four years. An unlikely friendship on the surface, the ethereal, air-headed, fae Kit Hopkins and the charismatic, sporting all-rounder Arthur Raffles had bonded over their shared love of the pre-Raphaelite movement, the poetry of John Keats, and through being two passionate painters at a school far more interested in the physical pursuits than the artistic. Evidently their compatibility had gone far beyond mere shared interests, for their friendship by the time I met them was of the breed I’d always imagined shield brothers in ancient Greece sharing, built on understanding, trust, unfaltering loyalty, and a shared language of in-jokes, allusions, and glances all the more loquacious for their lack of unnecessary words.

I envied Raffles and Kit with an ache that was almost physical. This was not merely jealousy sparking up in my young heart over my adoration of the dashing Raffles, but an envy rooted in the sad, longing loneliness of an isolated and misunderstood childhood, as physically secure and comfortable as it was emotionally desolate and uncherished. And so this unexpected coldness towards Kitty from Raffles proved more unsettling to me than did his usual warmth (for my jealousy over Raffles himself was by that point not insubstantial), and it distracted me enough that my batting — usually at least marginally better than my bowling — suffered for it. Even the ever-patient Raffles grew exasperated with my lack of attention.

After an hour of coaching Raffles called us to a close, promising to give us another session sometime over the next two weeks when he could find a spare hour. We were packing away our kits and the wickets when Dodo stopped for a moment to say something to Kitty; by the time Kitty had replied, Raffles had disappeared.

‘Gosh, he’s light on his feet!’ Dodo laughed when we all with some surprise discovered Raffles’ complete absence. ‘Could have said goodbye, at least. Not that I’m complaining; he can be as rude as he likes if he shows me how to do that slow-bowl break of his.’

‘Raffles isn’t rude,’ I snapped.

‘I know, Harry, I was just having a joke. Don’t be so defensive. Although, is it just me, or did Raffles seem a bit — off to you two, this afternoon?’

‘No, he didn’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I lied.

‘I suppose not,’ Dodo replied ponderously. ‘He just seemed a bit, you know, sad, or something.’

‘Do you think so?’ Kitty asked with a strange edge to his voice that I didn’t like. I couldn’t help but wonder what Kitty was doing there at all, hanging around with us. Why hadn’t he followed Raffles? Why couldn’t he go and talk to his own friends — he had enough of them! And why was he asking Dodo of all people for his opinion on Raffles’ mood? No one knew Raffles better than Kitty, to my constant annoyance. Especially not Dodo. If he was asking anyone, he should have been asking me.

‘Maybe he’s just tired,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Kitty. ‘Yes, that’s probably it.’

Later that evening, after we’d sat for dinner, I remembered that I had borrowed Raffles’ own cricket ball during practice, but tossed it into my bag when I’d left. And, so, when I was supposed to have been working on my Latin declension tables in my study, I instead dashed upstairs to Raffles’ dormitory room, ball in hand, to return it to its rightful owner. Raffles wasn’t in when I arrived, but I was accustomed as his fag to going in by myself to tidy up or fetch things for him and as such felt no compunction in darting in to stuff the ball in his kit bag uninvited.

Unfortunately said kit bag had been left untidily on the floor, and I tripped over it in my haste, sending the cricket ball flying out of my hands and rolling beneath the bed. Peering under it, I could see that the blasted thing had rolled right into the back corner, far out of my reach. Thankful for once that Raffles always insisted on me being a fastidious duster, I wriggled all the way beneath the wooden frame, which seemed just about high enough for me to fit, in attempt to retrieve the deuced ball. It was only once I was entirely under the bed that I realised, to my dismay, that it wasn’t just about high enough for me to fit — it was actually just a little less than that, and I had managed to get myself quite sufficiently wedged in!

I was just beginning to gain myself a little wiggle room when Raffles came back. Raffles came back, and he wasn’t alone. Raffles came back, he wasn’t alone, and I was stuck beneath his bed, my ears open to every word that was said, and my eyes open to every pacing step.

‘Arthur, please, you can’t just — throw me over like this!’

‘Go away, Kitty.’

‘You’ve barely spoken a word to me since we’ve come back!’

‘Your letter said enough for both of us.’

‘Arthur—’

‘Take — your hand — off — my arm.’

I’d never heard Raffles’ voice so cold. Evidently Kitty hadn’t either, for the gasping little sob which accompanied his step back was heart-rending even to me, so unfairly set against the young man as I was.

‘Arthur…’

‘You shouldn’t be here, Kitty. If your father finds out you have been talking to me, that’s it for your A _cademie_ and inheritance.’

‘Don’t be like that. Father knows I’ll see you at school. He does understand, you know.’

‘How magnanimous of him.’

‘Oh, you’re being beastly! What was I supposed to do!’

‘Nothing. Whatever you want. Go away.

‘Please,’ the blonde boy whined, and I watched his feet as he took a step towards Raffles’, who turned away. ‘I know it’s disappointing. I was rather looking forward to going up to Oxford with you too. But you know I’ve always wanted to study in Paris ever since I was tiny. I used to dream about it, but father was always so set against it. You know how he feels about the French —’

‘Yes, your father is marvellously xenophobic when it suits him, and wonderfully unprejudiced the moment it benefits him not to be.’

‘Well this time it benefits me, too. I can go to Paris! I can paint, really paint, and not have to worry about all the rest of it!’

‘And I am very happy for you, Kitty, and pleased for you that you managed to convince your father for so small a price. Congratulations.’

‘Don’t hate me, Arthur, please don’t, I can’t stand it. It wasn’t my choice, you must know that. What else could I do but agree to his terms? You know what he is like! And I’m sorry about Oxford, I really am, and I know you are disappointed, but—’

‘Disappointed?’ Raffles snapped, spinning on his toes back to face Hopkins. ‘I’m not disappointed, Kitty, I’m— It’s not about Paris! I’d happily go to Paris with you; I don’t care where I paint, as long as I do. As long as— It’s not about _Oxford_. You know it’s not about that, Kit. It’s—’ Raffles broke off as his voice threatened to crack. ‘You won’t even be allowed to _write_ to me, Kit. You’re going to cut me off completely, throw me over as if you’d never even known me—? ...But at least you’ll have your money. At least you’ll have _Paris_.’

‘What was I supposed to do?’ — a petulant and desperate foot stamped on the well-worn rug — ‘My father never approved of our— _friendship_. And he was never going to let me— And really, it— Well, it is sensible really, isn’t it? I’ll do much better in Paris than in Oxford. You know I’m not as clever as you are; all I can do is paint, whereas you can do all sorts of things and— And Amelie really is a nice girl, you would like her. Useful alliances and a good marriage are important for people of my station—

‘People of your _station?_ ’

‘You know what I mean. My father is in the House of Lords. My brother is a bishop. I can’t just— My situation isn’t the same as yours, Raffles.’

‘Of course not. You’re _important._ ’

‘Oh, don’t be like this. It’ll be better for you, too, really. You’ll see. You’ll be grateful for this one day. This sort of friendship is well enough at school, but— but eventually a man has to— has to grow up.’

‘Are they your words, or your father’s?’

‘Don’t be like that.’

‘You keep saying that, but how am I _supposed_ to be? How do _you_ want me to be?’ Raffles replied sharply, sadly. ‘Tell me, Kit. What should I be? Who should I be?’

‘My friend.’

‘I’ve been your friend for three and a half years, Kitty.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you?’

Silence fell over the room for a handful of tense moments. I held my breath.

‘I love you, Kit.

‘Arthur, don’t…’

‘But I do. _I love you._ And you love me, too. Or you did; you said you did. Was that a lie?’

I watched Kitty’s feet as they shuffled on the rug. I felt nauseous. I shouldn’t have been listening to this. I didn’t want to be listening to this. But what could I do? I was trapped.

‘Of course it wasn’t a lie, Arthur. How could you even ask that? But—’

‘But what?’ Raffles stepped forwards and Kitty did not step back, leaving them standing close to one another. ‘I love you, Kit, and you love me. We don’t need to go to Oxford, or Paris -- we could go anywhere! _You_ could go anywhere, do anything! You don’t need to do what your father tells you, Kitty; and to hell with his money! What’s money? You’ll make heaps of it by yourself; you’ve already had an exhibition of your portraits up in London, and you’re not even near twenty-one, yet! You don’t need anyone, and you especially don’t need him. Every subject’s soul is his own, Kit!’

‘It’s not as easy as that.’

‘Nothing worthwhile is!’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I’m not clever like you are, Arthur. I don’t have the options you do. You could do anything you set your mind to; all I can do is paint. That is all I can do. If I don’t make it as a painter, I’ve got nothing. I can’t do anything else; I’m not— I’m not fit to do anything but paint, or inherit.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘But it _is,_ can't you see it? You have opportunity, but I have duty. I can’t— I can’t turn away from that any more than you could— could stop playing cricket, or stop reading poetry, or not sketch, or— or ever let anyone else tell you what to do or who to be. That’s who you are, Arthur; and this is who I am. I am my father’s son. And with Mark in the Church, and poor Johnny dead, I— It’s my duty.’

‘It’s not,’ Raffles rejoined with feeling. ‘It’s not, Kit. Your duty is to yourself, and to your art, and to truth and beauty and _love_. Not to your father.

‘Love? This— this isn’t _love_ , though, is it?’ Kitty’s voice sounded uncertain, as though he were reading lines from a script he had memorised but not understood. ‘Not real love, it’s— What can _we_ know of love? We’re just— boys. Love is for— for men and women, for marriage. It’s not for us.’

Raffles exhaled sharply. ‘Kitty…’

‘It’s— We’re just confused, Arthur. We’re friends, and— and I care about you, of course I do, but it’s not love. I love — I love Amelie.’

‘You don’t know Amelie!’

‘No, _you_ don’t know her,’ Kitty bit back. ‘I know her. I’ve known her since I was five years old!

‘You’ve known of her existence, certainly.’

‘She’s from an excellent family, and she’s— she is rather beautiful, and apparently really rather clever, and— and I know she likes poetry, and I think she quite likes art, too, and her English is good; better than my French... I’m sure we’ll — we will have a very happy life together.’

‘God, Kit! You’re barely nineteen! Listen to yourself!

‘I know it’s young but— but we won’t marry until after I leave the Academy. That’s the deal— I mean, that’s the, the— the plan. I’ll have plenty of time to get to know her before then.’

‘How romantic.’

‘There’s more to life than romance. I have duty, Arthur. My family is— it’s important. My duty is—’

‘To hell with duty! This isn’t you, Kit!’

‘It is. It is now. Maybe I’ve just — grown up.’

‘What? Over Easter? That was fast.' Raffles' joking tone came with such a sudden and jarring flippancy that it made me wince, but Kitty laughed, and Raffles laughed along with him.

‘An Easter miracle, my brother would say.’

‘Whilst quaffing the communion wine.’

‘And forgetting the words to his own sermons!’

‘...Don’t do this, Kit. Please. I won’t ask you again, but — _please_ don’t do this. I don’t have anyone else. You’re my best friend; you’re my _only friend_.’

‘And you’re _mine_. But—’

Raffles exhaled. ‘But you won’t go back on what you’ve said.’

‘I can’t, Arthur.’

‘No, you _won’t._ Oh, why did you have to write that letter, Kitty? I wish you hadn’t told me,’ Raffles said, his voice now as dull and quiet as it had previously been impassioned. ‘I wish you’d just disappeared after the summer and never looked back. ...Leave me alone, Kit. There’s nothing more to be said about it. It's done.’

‘Arthur, please, I—

‘Just go. You’ve made your decision. I don’t blame you for it, and I wish you all the luck in the world, but don’t you _dare_ stand there and—’ Raffles cut himself short, and I saw him turn away. ‘Goodbye, Kit.’

‘Don’t call it goodbye, Arthur, please don’t say that. School isn’t over, yet, we could still—

‘Go away, Kitty!’

I watched from beneath the bed as Hopkins’ stepped back, reeling from Raffles raised voice, before stumbling out of the room. Raffles’ remained in place, silent and still. I heard him sigh, deeply, sadly, and then saw him move to close the door, pausing against it as it shut, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. I imagined him resting his forehead against the wood as he took a breath, eyes closed, expression pained. I then watched in slow-moving horror as Raffles walked back towards the bed and flopped down on it; this, of course, caused the bed to sink beneath him, further squashing me. A lock of my hair caught between the mattress and the bed frame and I yelped quite involuntarily, revealing my presence in quite possibly the worst possible way.

Quicker than lightning Raffles was grasping beneath the bed. He caught a handful of my collar and painfully wrenched me out with a burning fury I would never have dreamed him capable of.

‘Who the _devil_ is—’ As he hoisted me up before him Raffles saw my face and realised who I was. He blanched, dropping me as though I were a red-hot coal. ‘ _Manders?_ Oh, thank the gods, it’s only you. I thought it was the Nipper, or— What the devil are you playing at, Bunny!?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I spluttered, trying to scramble back to my feet on legs numb and shaky, my words pouring out of me half incoherent. ‘I didn’t mean to! You left your cricket ball on the field, and I wanted to bring it back so you wouldn’t worry, because I know you’re particular about using your own cricket balls so I didn’t want to— and then I tripped over your bag on the floor, and I dropped the ball, and it— it rolled under the bed and I couldn’t reach it, so I had to crawl under, but it was too tight and I got stuck and then you came back, and Kitty was with you and I— and I— and I—!’

Two firm hands upon my shoulders gave me a gentle shake. ‘Bunny, Bunny, it’s all right, old chap. Calm down. It’s all right. I’m not cross with you.’

I took a deep breath and nodded, scrubbing at my face with my fist. It was only then that I noticed my cheeks were hot and wet with tears; the realisation that I’d been crying in front of him only succeeded in bringing on a fresh flood.

‘I’m sorry, Raffles,’ I said between hitching breaths. ‘I didn’t mean it. I didn’t know what to do, not when you started arguing, and— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it!’

‘Bunny! It’s okay! You don’t need to cry about it, you dear little chap! Come now, calm down, calm down. Oh, you little rabbit, what are we going to do with you, eh? Cheer up, it’s all right. I didn’t hurt you, did I? I’m sorry if I did.’

‘No, you didn't, I'm all right. But—’

‘But what? Bunny?’

‘...Oh, Raffles, are you and Kitty really not allowed to be friends anymore? It’s not fair! I don’t understand how he could— I’d never let anyone tell me I couldn’t be friends with — with anyone I wanted to be friends with, anyone I _loved_ , no matter what they threatened me with! Kitty doesn’t really mean it, does he? You’ll be pals again, soon, won’t you? Tell me you will, Raffles?’

I shouldn’t have spoken to him like that. I definitely shouldn’t have said what I said, and I knew that even as I said it. But I couldn’t help it! As much as I was jealous of Kitty and Raffles’ friendship, I admired it too. In a way that I couldn’t yet articulate, it had given me hope that I might not always be so lonely; that a friendship, that a _love_ of that sort, of that strength, of that sincerity _could_ exist. And if it could exist for them, then perhaps it could exist for me one day, too.

Raffles closed his eyes and swallowed, taking a breath, grimacing. A conflict of emotion battled over his face, and when he opened his eyes they carried a resolute dullness which hurt me more than if he had simply struck me.

‘Bunny,’ he said in a controlled, measured voice, ‘it wasn’t your fault that you heard what you heard, and I’m not cross with you for it, but you really oughtn’t to have heard any of it. You have no right to ask me any questions about it, do you understand me?’

I hung my head. ‘I know.’

‘I don’t want you to mention it ever again, not to anyone. Not to Kitty, not to Dodo, not — to — anyone. Not to me; not even to yourself. Do you hear me? It could do more damage than you know, Bunny. It shouldn’t, but it would. I need you to promise me you won’t repeat anything you heard to anyone.’

I swallowed and nodded.

‘I need more than a nod, Bunny.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I understand; I won’t say anything. I promise.

‘Good,’ he said, giving me a long look. ‘I believe you. And please don’t look so sad about it. I’m really not at all cross, not with you. I’m just — I’m sorry you had to hear it at all. Are you all right, my boy?’

I sniffed again, and wiped at my face with my sleeve. When Raffles gave my shoulder another reassuring squeeze I finally looked up at him; and as I did I felt my lip begin to quiver and more hot tears threaten to spill over my lashes. Not because I was scared and stressed and worried he was secretly angry with me, even though I was all of those things; and not even because I was embarrassed over crying in front of him, though I was that, too. No, I wanted to cry because Raffles himself looked so sad.

Raffles, the dashing Captain of the First Eleven. Raffles, the Captain of the Second Fifteen. Raffles, the winner of the Latin translation prize at Christmas, the boy who gave the prestigious main reading at the end of year presentations. Raffles, the most popular, the most charismatic, the most daring boy in all the school. Raffles who snuck out at night with my help; Raffles who trusted me willingly with his adventurous secrets, and who needs must now trust me unwillingly with this painful one. Raffles who was always brave, always quick to smile and quick to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves — who protected him? For the first time I had seen a very real and very human side to the boy I so idolised. I saw the sadness in his eyes, the pain creasing his brow, the ache in his heart which bled out of him now through every pore. And even then he was trying to cheer me up; to make sure that I was all right. I couldn’t bear it. I was always an emotional and empathetic child; my heart ever on my sleeve took such constant beatings it felt always bruised and always sensitive.

And this was _Raffles._

Without thinking twice, I threw my arms around his waist and hugged him as tightly as I could. For a second Raffles just stood there, stock still; but for once I didn’t care whether I had made a fool of myself, didn’t care if I had annoyed him, or had overstepped some unseen mark or broken some unwritten rule. In that moment all I knew was that Raffles was unhappy, and that I needed to hug him; that I needed, in my own childish, useless, futile way to give to the boy who had given me so much hope and protection over that year, some reassurance of his own. Some care. Some sympathy, comfort, support, encouragement, _something._ Anything. Anything to get rid of that awful sadness in his eyes, and the weighty loneliness I had heard in his voice; a loneliness which came from the very depths of his soul; a loneliness which, I realised, was a mirror to my own.

And so I hugged Raffles. And then Raffles, to my surprise and relief, hugged me back.

‘I’ll be your friend, Raffles,’ I murmured as loudly as I dared, which wasn’t very loudly at all, my words further muffled against his blazer as I squeezed him tight. ‘You aren’t on your own. Kitty wasn’t your only friend, no matter what you think. You have _me,_ Raffles, and I— I really do love you so much.’

‘Did you say something, Bunny?’ Raffles said as he finally and gently pushed me away, ruffling my hair as he stepped back and shot me a tired sort of smile.

‘What? Oh. No. Nothing. Just— Nothing.’

‘I thought you did.’

‘I just said— I just asked if you’re going to be all right, that’s all.’

‘Course I will,’ said he with a bright grin that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Don’t you worry about me, Bunny. Go on, run along and wash that red little face of yours in cold water, and go read a novel, or something. Cheer yourself up, little rabbit, and don’t give me a second thought. We’ll continue working on that bowling of yours next week; see if we can’t keep your rabbit feet on the ground and your head out of the clouds, how about that?’

And we did. Raffles helped me to stop hopping whenever I bowled — though I never managed to shake the nickname it had already earned me. And I, so I hoped, helped him to get through his final term with days a little brighter, a little easier, and with a little more loyal companionship than he might otherwise have met. And when we parted company on that last day of term, we did so as friends.


End file.
